


garden of bruises

by Patrocool (all_the_homo)



Series: in blood or ink [2]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Blood and Injury, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, First Meetings, Homophobic Language, Injury, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Panic Attacks, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Pre-Canon, Soulmates, just as a warning, they use queer as a slur in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 02:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12644376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_the_homo/pseuds/Patrocool
Summary: Out of all the things Spot Conlon expected out of a lunch break with a few of his newsies, saving a Manhattan Newsie from being killed was not one of them.Sometimes, you just have to adapt though.*****OR, the first part of a story written in blood in Spot's POV, including bonding time with Boots. Can be read as a stand alone.





	garden of bruises

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a stand alone, but i definitely recommend reading the first part, otherwise a few things won't make that much sense.
> 
> TW:
> 
> -panic attack  
> -violence, injury, blood, bruises  
> -implied past child abuse  
> -smoking  
> -homophobia  
> -use of the q-slur (used by queer people to describe themselves)  
> -a lot of talk of racist assholes
> 
> i think that's it, but please tell if i forgot something

Out of all the things Spot expected out of a lunch break with Crunch, Bee, and Ace, saving a Manhattan Newsie from being killed was not one of them.

It all started when a young boy, no older than eleven or so, ran up to them, breaths coming out in sobs and tears streaming down his cheeks. He was clearly terrified and running from something, and immediately, Spot was on guard. It wouldn’t be the first time that a colored boy got beat on by white people, and it wouldn’t be the last either.

“You’se Brooklyn?” The boy gasped out, eyes wide and desperate. It was then that Spot recognized the boy’s newsie bag. “Please tell me yah is!”

“What’s wrong, kid?” Spot said urgently, touching his shoulder. “We’s can help yah.”

The boy started crying harder, probably out of relief. “W-we was jist sellin’ our papes, I swan! I swan, a big white saila, he said them docks ain’t fo’ colored folk, it was where we was eatin’ lunch, an-an’ Racetrack, he say “well them boards look brown to me!” an-an’ he don’ like that none, an’ he-he, he gonna hurt Racer! Racer told me tah run an’ get Jack, or Brooklyn, an’ I-I…” He looked sick. “I left him.”

Spot blinked, trying to follow wht the boy was saying. “Yah frien’ is gettin’ soaked fo’ no good reason?”

The boy nodded, trembling. “I-I left him, I-I di’n’ wanna! He-he….” The boy sobbed louder, and Spot looked at his newsies, who were up and ready to go. Crunch gestured towards the kid, eyebrow quirked and Spot nodded.

“A’ight kid, calm down. Me an’ my boys is gonna go help yah frien’. What’s yah name?” Spot said, voice soft.

“B-Boots, me name is Boots,” the boy- Boots- stuttered out.

Spot nodded. “Okay, Boots. You go wit’ Crunch here, she’ll take keer of yah while me an’ my boys go get yah friend, okay?”

With a few last words, Spot, Ace, and Bee were dashing down the street to where Spot assumed they would find a second colored boy, a few years older than Boots, getting the shit beat out of him.

Only two-thirds of Spot’s prediction turned out true. The boy they came across was, in fact, a few years older than Boots, and he was most definitely getting the shit beat out of him, but he wasn’t colored. Tan skin, but from sun, not natural pigment.

Spot wondered why a white boy had stood up for a colored boy. He knew most of his newsies wouldn’t have. Sure, none of them cared about skin color, but when it came to things like this, it was always save your own skin.

But this boy was different, and that alone caught Spot’s attention.

Bee rushed forward to grab the man’s wrist, not allowing him to finish the poor kid off. Ace, on the man’s other side, slammed a stick into the side of the guy’s head, causing him to yell and drop like a rock, unconscious. Bee snickered and spat on the man while Spot cautiously walked towards Racetrack. 

His head seemed to be falling backwards and Spot rushed forward, cupping the back of his head before it could hit the dumpster. “Racetrack?” He asked, studying his face. “That you? We was sent by a small kid called Boots.”

To put it frankly, Racetrack was fucking gorgeous. Freckles scattered across his face, golden blonde curls (currently matted with blood), blue eyes that would probably be sharp and clear if they weren’t so dazed from hitting his head. The sharp angle of his jaw, his pointed nose-

Spot grimaced internally, trying to shake it off, but he knew there was no hope. His head was fucked up, and there was no fixing that. 

It took Race a moment to reply, blinking blearily up at Spot. “Boo’s?” He asked, slurring his words. “Where’s he? He o’ay?”

(Months later, he would look back on this moment and wonder how he could ever be surprised by the amount this boy cared about others. The damn bastard was such a Mother Theresa that Spot would want to strangle him if he didn’t like that stupid quality about him so much.)

Spot paused, an amused smirk crossing his lips to hide his surprise. “Yeah, he’s scared an’ upset, but okay.” He heard himself say. “My firs’ lieutenant, Crunch, is lookin’ afta him. You, on the otha han’, got knocked righ’ inta a cocked hat, didn’cha? At leas’ yah ain’t as cold as a wagon tire, Kelly woulda had a conniption fit.” 

Honestly? He didn’t give a single fuck what Kelly thought.

But Racetrack didn’t need to know that.

Bee laughed from behind him. Spot glanced at him long enough to see Ace making lewd motions at the sailor on the ground. Bee made eye contact with him, a lazy grin fixed upon his face as he leaned against the wall. “Can yah carry ‘im, Spot? We’s gotta go befo’ da bulls get tipped.”

Spot looked back to Racetrack, trying to determine where the worst injuries were. He waved his hand dismissively. “I got ‘im, Bee. You an’ Ace clean up, yeah? Stitches should be able tah fix Racetrack ‘ere.” Looked like it was mostly his head and the stab wound in his hip. His own hip twanged in sympathy.

He looked at Ace and Bee once more before carefully wrapping his arms around Racetrack, picking up. The boy whimpered and jerked in his arms when he accidentally pressed on his hip, and Spot winced. “Shuddap, jist’ stay awake. Yah ain’t dying on my turf, damn it,” he mumbled, trying to keep up his gruff façade. 

Racetrack didn’t respond beyond a pained grimace, and labored breathing. Spot could feel the blood spreading, and he used an old bandana of his that he often carried in his pocket to press down on the wound, ignoring Racetrack’s whimpers. He started moving quickly. 

“Oi, Ace, run ahead an’ tell Stitches that he gots a patient comin’ in, an’ tah be ready fo’ him.” Spot ordered quickly, heading to the mouth of the alley. “Bee, follow behind tah make sure no bulls see an’ follow us. We’s don’ want ‘em findin’ the infirmary.” 

Bee nodded seriously, tugging his cap down over his eyes and dropped back behind them. Spot didn’t have to look back to know that Bee was probably pretending to have dropped something, or was tying his shoe, or something of the sort that gave him the excuse to be left behind. 

Spot quickened his pace, now focused on the boy bleeding out in his arms. He looked chalky pale, and his breaths were raspy and wheezing. His eyelids fluttered, but his eyes were foggy and unfocused. He definitely wasn’t aware of much of anything. 

It didn’t matter. He just had to stay awake and alive. 

“Come on, Racetrack, jist a few mo’ blocks, this ain’t nothin’. You’se tough, ain’tchu? You’se saved that kid, now you’se gotta save yahself. Stay awake, damn it. I’se don’ need a fight wit’ other boroughs,” Spot grumbled under his breath, trying to keep Racetrack awake. 

(Almost eight months later, he would be in the same position as he took a near unconscious and bleeding Racer from Jack Kelly’s arms, who had just snuck into the basement of the Refuge. As he looked at Jack’s face, who was pale and shaky, he knew that whatever Race had been though, it wasn’t good. It felt a lot different than it did the first time though, the first time it was someone he had never met before. The second time, it was the boy with stars in his eyes, and a heart so big all of the newises of New York could fit inside of it, and then some. It was the boy with a bright, wild laugh, snarky comments, and quick witted jabs. It was the boy who held his hand discreetly when they were alone, who walked him to the Brooklyn bridge when he could sneak to Manhattan for a few hours, who gave soft kisses, but also rough bites, who let him tug on his hair, but also pinned him to walls to attack his mouth. It was the boy who always tasted of cigar smoke and sometimes a hint of a candy that one of his regulars gave him, the boy whose eyes would light up and his lips could curl into a smirk whenever he got a new idea for a joke or prank. It was the boy who lit up Spot’s life with his brilliant light, who was brimming so full of life that it spilled onto those around him.  
It was the boy whose life was slowly slipping away in his arms.)

Spot let out a shaky breath of relief when he saw the old abandoned apartment building the Brooklyn newsies used as an infirmary ahead of him. They only used the first floor, and used it since they wouldn’t have to pay to stay there, and that way they wouldn’t get the other kids sick too. 

He stepped into the alleyway and slid into the broken side door easily, walking to the center room where they had small “beds” made out of straw and strips of fabric that couldn’t be used for anything else anyways. He slowly lowered Racetrack onto one of the beds and motioned over Stitches, who came over quickly. 

Racetrack moaned in pain and tried to sit up, but Spot quickly pressed him back down. “Sit down, damn it, yah tryin’ tah die?” He turned to Stitches slightly. “Stitches, tell me what tah do. He’s a ‘Hatten newsie and I don’ need a war with Kelly right now.”

Stitches pressed a small bundle of cloth in his hands and a pocket knife. He tugged over a cup of water with a rag in it and started cleaning off Racetrack’s wounds. “Take off his shirt an’ try to uncover that wound on his hip, will yah? We gotta stop all the bleedin’,” Stitches ordered, voice low and raspy. 

Spot nodded and unbuttoned Racetrack’s vest and overshirt, and carefully pushed his undershirt up his chest so his lower stomach and hip. He carefully undid his suspenders, and pulled the band of his pants down to see the wound.

It was bleeding heavily, and Spot quickly folded the cloth in his hands up to make a pad that he then pressed down on it to try to stop the bleeding. 

It took a while, but soon enough, Stitches managed to bandage Racetrack up the best he could. “Now, we wait,” he said softly. “There’s nothing else we can do but wait and let him rest.”

Spot nodded and grabbed a ratty blanket to gently cover Race with before going to lean against the wall, looking at him curiously. He wished he wasn’t a goddamn queer, but it wasn’t like he could change it. There wasn’t anything wrong with looking after all, was there?

He shoved his suspenders off his shoulders and let them hang loose around his hips, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. Crunch and the kid would be there soon, seeing as Spot had sent one of his boys to go fetch them about a half hour before. Might as well get comfortable so he could pretend he didn’t care.

He untucked his shirt from his pants, frowning when he saw something on his hip. He licked his thumb and wiped at it, thinking, in the low light, that it was a patch of dirt.

When it didn’t rub away, he frowned and looked closer, and froze at what he saw.

A dark, molten bruise was pained across his dark skin, and right in the middle was angry red scar. Like someone had stabbed him.

He swallowed slowly. He knew that hadn’t been there that morning when he had been getting dressed, and he certainly hadn’t been stabbed over the course of the day.

His eyes wandered over to Race, taking in his appearance carefully, specifically looking for scars and bruising.

A tiny scar under Racetrack’s ear that matched the one Spot got when he fell of a fire escape when he was ten. Small burns from cigars scattered across his neck and shoulders, much like the ones that gave Spot his name. A bruise on his elbow, that Spot had just brushed off without really thinking about it. It all matched.

Racetrack, the Manhattan newsie, was his soulmate. Spot felt dizzy from the realization, swallowing hard. Begrudgingly accepting his queerness, and having the option to actually act upon it were two very different things.

He swallowed hard and chewed his lip. He wasn’t going to say anything, he decided. Not unless Racetrack brought it up first. And if he did? Well, he’d burn that bridge when he got to it.

(He was fairly certain that wasn’t how the phrase went, but he couldn’t bring himself to really care.)

He cracked his knuckles, an anxious tick of his, still staring silently. His soulmate. He was gorgeous, quite frankly, golden blonde curls that turned near white in the light, his lightly tanned skin with dark freckles splattered across his cheeks, chapped, pink lips, all sharp angles that somehow made him look soft. 

Spot didn’t know how one person could look so unbelievably adorable, and he hated it. He wanted to punch something, to shove Racetrack and his stupid, pretty face out of Brooklyn for good, but he also wanted to press Racetrack against a wall and trace that stupid, pretty face with his mouth.

In other words, he was completely fucked.

*****

By the time Crunch got to the infirmary with Boots, Spot was anxiously pacing back and forth, his face stormy. Fear, anger, and a smidgen of hope flowed through him like a river, creating tremors, and scowls, and shaking fingers, and glares. Creating anxiety as deep as a pit in his stomach, twisting and churning, and sapping at him until he was wound tight as a bow.

Several times, Spot had punched the wall, and he had bruised, bloody knuckles to prove it. He didn’t know what to do with all the nervous energy, so he lashed out in an attempt to let it out.

Unfortunately, once he caught sight of the matching wounds on Race’s hand, he stopped, swallowing hard and wished that he could’ve been normal.

Wishes were for dreamers, though, and that was something Spot wasn’t. He’d keep his head right there in the present, thank you very much.

As soon as Crunch walked in, Spot could tell she knew something was up. Neither of them acknowledged it though, more focused on the red eyed boy clinging to her arm desperately. 

“Boots,” Spot greeted, voice soft. “C’mere, kid, look. Racetrack’s jist fine, you sees? Jist dandy. He’s been beat real good, but he’s okay. Don’ wake him, yeah? Needa tah sleep, you do too.” 

Boots’ lip trembled as he let go of Crunch and hesitantly walked towards Racetrack. As soon as he was close enough, he collapsed next to him, curling against his side. He didn’t say a word, simply clinging to him like he was afraid Racetrack might disappear.

Spot glanced at Crunch and she inclined her head slightly in a suggestion to talk in a different room. He nodded and followed her out.

She leaned against the wall in the hallway, just out of earshot of Boots and Racetrack, and far out of the earshot of Stitches, who had his own space on the other side of the room. 

“So,” she said, idly fixing her bandana so her dreads could spill out the back of it, rather than keeping them up, hidden underneath her cap and bandana. Crunch knew she didn’t have to say anything else, if Spot wanted to talk, he’d talk.

Spot sighed softly, chewing his lip. He trusted Crunch with his life, nobody was closer to him than she was, but this, this was something he wasn’t sure he could tell even her about.

It looked like she didn’t have to, however, as she suddenly narrowed her eyes and yanked him closer by his shirt, eyes fixed on a tiny sliver of discolored skin on his shoulder. She twisted him around and pulled his shirt away from his skin and prodded at it roughly.

He huffed and quickly tore away from her grip, scowling. “What the hell was that?” He snapped defensively. Judging by her expression, it was exactly the reaction she was looking for.

“You is bein’ all defensive ‘bout yah soulmate marks, which you nary is,” she said slowly, deliberately. He bristled but she cut him off before he could snap at her. “That means you’se found ‘em, an’ you’se hidin’ it. But you ain’t one tah hide things like that, so that means fo’ whatever reason, you’se can’t tell no one. An’ it woulda had tah be someone you’se jist met, an’ you knows exac’ly who I knows is yah soulmate.”

Spot’s jaw clenched anxiously, and he shifted his weight slightly. Of course, she noticed with a nod, her theory confirmed. She culled a cigar out of her pocket and lit it, taking a slow drag before offering it to Spot. He took it suspiciously, knowing Crunch rarely shared her cigars.

(He would find out weeks later that Crunch and Racetrack were one and the same that way. He’d find out in a dimly lit alley with his lips pressed against a light-skinned throat, sucking dark bruises that blossomed like flowers under enough pressure. He’d find out with a soft flick of a match being lit, the smell of smoke filling his lungs, a breathy noise, and a huff and shove as he tried to take the cigar to kiss swollen red lips. Racetrack had been huffy for a solid half hour afterwards, scowling and swatting at Spot’s hands anytime he reached for him. He had learned his lesson then, amused but grumpy, not to take Race’s cigars if he wanted to keep touching and kissing him.)

He took the cigar though, holding it between his fingers gingerly and taking a drag of his own. She watched him silently for a moment.

“Your soulmate,” she said. It wasn’t a question. “He’s a boy, an’ you knows what that means.” Spot clenched his fist, standing up straighter with his eyes flashing dangerously. He opened his mouth, ready to protest, but she ignored him, continuing on. “It means you’se gotta be careful.”

Spot’s mouth was open, a retort on the tip of his tongue, ready to spit out like a curse, but then he froze, realizing what she said. He paused, blinking and looking at her. Crunch shrugged and plucked the cigar from his fingers. “I’ve known for years, Spotty-boy, I ain’t stupid. But don’ you worry none, I ain’t tellin’ no one ever. An’ it ain’t obvious none either.”

Spot swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I… Crunch.”

It was all that needed to be said. She understood and gave him one of her rare, tiny smiles. It was with that that he knew with certainty that she was telling the truth. 

*****

His mind was more still and calm as he leaned against the wall, inspecting a handful of marbles that had been in his pockets. He tossed one in the air and frowned, shaking his head and put it in the discard pile.

Racetrack was still asleep a few feet away, looking more peaceful than he did when they had gotten there, a few hours before. Boots had fallen asleep at some point when Spot had been talking to Crunch, and hadn’t woken since. Spot figured the day’s stress and activities had exhausted the kid, and he didn’t blame him either. 

He flicked a cat-eye marble and it flew cleanly and easily. He nodded and put it back in his pocket, plucking the next one from the small pile next to him. A silver ball bearing. Heavy, but not too much. Smooth, no dents. Would be nice for hitting racists. 

He put it in his pocket, picking up the next one. He frowned when he found a big dent in the side, rubbing it with his thumb. He didn’t like it, too rough and sharp. He put it in the discard pile.

“What are you doing?”

Spot’s head whipped up quickly to look at Boots who was looking at him with puffy, red rimmed eyes that held a cautious curiosity. 

“Marbles,” he said slowly, expression guarded. “I keep marbles wit’ me fo’ when I see scabbers an’ people I don’ like.” He paused. “An’ also fo’ lil kids that annoy me,” he added.

Boots nodded, like it made sense. “So why you’se puttin’ ‘em in different piles?”

“Dese ones ain’t no good,” Spot explained, pointing at the discard pile. “Too heavy, or dented, or they’s jist don’ fly right.”

Boots nodded again, glancing at Racetrack before sliding closer to Spot. “I’se seen Finch do that. He ain’t no good at it though, or he’s real bad at aiming, I ain’t shore, but he ain’t no good at usin’ his slingshot.”

Spot, surprisingly enough, had to suppress a smile. The kid was sweet and saying something Spot’s sure would get him in trouble with whoever Finch was, sue him. His mouth started moving without permission. “D’yah wanna learn how tah sort ‘em?”

Boots’ eyes lit up and he sat up quicky. “Wouldja?”

Spot shrugged. “Sure, kid, might as well while yah here.”

Boots beamed and scooted closer until they were sitting within a foot of each other with the marbles between them. With that, Spot began, in a quiet voice, explaining the different uses of different marbles and what qualities you’d want for each. 

Time passed, and soon enough, Boots’ yawns were frequent, and his eyes were drooping. Spot paused and raised an eyebrow with a smirk. “Go tah sleep, kid, you’se tired as all get out. In the mornin’, you’se can wake sleepin’ beauty ova there.” 

The boy looked at Racetrack and nodded eagerly. “Okay. Thanks, Spot. Fo’ ev’rythin’.”

Spot scoffed. “Shut pan, kid, or I’ll soak yah.”

He smiled sleepily and bobbed his head, crawling over to Racetrack and all but collapsed next to him. Within minutes, he was asleep, and Spot put away his marbles quietly.

*****

When Racetrack wakes up and starts talking in the middle of the night, Spot hates to admit that he actually rather likes the obnoxious way he speaks. Even when beaten to a pulp, the boy isn’t afraid to show his opinion. Spot respects that.

He also isn’t a racist piece of shit, so that definitely doesn’t hurt either.

(Three months later, while Race is waxing poetry about Spot’s skin tone, Spot understands that Racetrack not only sees differences and respects them, but he also thrives in them. Racetrack is one of those beautiful people who loves differences between people instead of commonality. Then, Race kisses his fingertips, and all thought is erased from his mind and his breath is caught in his throat, and all he knows is an overflow of something.)

The way that he treated Boots with such love and protectiveness, not unlike an older brother would, made him feel safe somehow. Like, if Racetrack acted like that to Boots, he wouldn’t ever hurt Spot, which was total bullshit, frankly, but it felt nice anyways.

His words, while all brash and rude, had an undercurrent of defensiveness and respect towards Spot. Like he respected him, but didn’t trust him, which Spot understands. Really, they’re in the same boat on that one, and just waiting to see who tipped it first.

He’s hesitant to believe that this is really his soulmate, that he somehow got paired with one of the most perfect people he had ever met, and not perfect in the sense that he was flawless, but it the sense that he was human. He was caring, and brash, and obnoxious and protective, and adorable, and brilliant, and quick witted, and all around, a sarcastic asshole with a big heart. 

He tried not to think about it too hard, not wanting to end up broken hearted.

*****

The next morning, Spot told Boots to wake Racetrack as he walked over to Bee, who was leaning against the doorframe. Stitches followed him over quietly. 

“Boss, we’s got problems,” Bee said quietly, tapping his finger on his thigh. “Queens is all ova the borda, pushin’ fo’ somethin’. They’s tryin’ tah start a fight, I don’ think Oak an’ Sprout is in charge no mo’, or if they is, they’s control is slippin’. Them newsies is doin’ whateva they’s want.”

Spot frowned, thinking for a moment. “Tell our kids on the borda not tah engage wit’ them if that what they’s want. Start threatenin’ them wit’ our connections if it gets too much. If this continues fo’ too much longa, I will sees to it personally that someone overthrows Sprout an’ Oak, an’ I’se already knows who.”

Bee raised an eyebrow. “Who?’ He asked, curious. Stitches looked at him in interest too.

“Smalls Hernandez. Tiny girl wit’ a big attitude. Good kid, yah hear? Good leada.”

Bee blinked slowly, thinking about it before nodding. “Brown skin, black hair, even shorta than you’se?”

Spot scowled but nodded. “Might wanna rephrase that, Bee.” 

Bee grinned. “Ace’ll protect me.”

“No, he won’t,” Stitches snorted. “Not against Spot.”

Bee’s grin faltered and he huffed. “Whateva.” He scuffed his shoe against the floor. “Anyways. Good choice, boss,” he muttered.

Spot opened his mouth to reply, but paused as he heard Racetrack say something behind him.

“Make sure Specs, an’ Romeo, an’ Kid Blink, an’ Snipeshooter, an’ y’know, all them colored boys, make sure they’s ain’t sellin’ alone, got it? Tell Jack not tah let any of y’all go out alone without someone white no more, ‘kay? It ain’t safe an’ I don’ know what we’s do without you.” Racetrack looked very serious as he looked at Boots, who nodded with a soft, “Yessir.” 

Spot studied Race very closely, lips pressed together. Of course, Racetrack cared about all of the other newsies, but to the extent of telling Boots to not let anyone go without a white kid if they were colored? He couldn’t just be a newsie. He had to have some sort of power. He wondered if Racetrack was Kelly’s second in command. Last he had heard, Kelly hadn’t chosen his second in command yet, but that had been months ago.

He wasn’t surprised that Racetrack would be chosen to be second in command though. He was the right type, balanced out Jack pretty well. It also meant Racetrack wouldn’t do anything to hurt the rocky alliance between Manhattan and Brooklyn, but it also meant that anything Spot told Racetrack about Brooklyn would probably go straight to Kelly.

He didn’t realize he was staring until Racetrack spoke up. “What’s it wit’ you’se an’ starin’? Yah got sometin’ tah say tah me?” He snapped.

Spot startled slightly and scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. He realized Stitches was starting to clean Racetrack’s wounds, and quickly came up with something to say.

“I jist’ di’n’ expectcha tah keer beans about colored folk, that all.” Spot muttered. “Why’s wouldja? You’se ain’t colored none.”

That seemed to only anger Racetrack more, unfortunately. “Them boys is family, Conlon. Them’s the only family I got. None of thems is any differen’ ‘cause they got differen’ skin. We’s all livin’ an’ doin’ the bes’ we can tah survive. I don’ see the point of makin’ it harda fo’ them. It jist’ ain’t right.” Race took a deep breath, scowling. His voice got more and more defensive as he went on. “I’s was a guttersnipe, ‘bout tah hang the fiddle, ‘fo’ they’s found me, an’ they’s gave me a new life, a new name, a new chance.”

Spot wanted to slam his head into a wall. This is not what he wanted to do today, especially not after staying awake all night to make sure Racetrack didn’t keel over in his sleep. He held up his hands in a mock surrender, putting his walls up. He refused to let one cute boy get under his skin like this. Even if said cute boy was in fact his soulmate. “No need to get yah self into a pucker, Racetrack,” he said. “I’se was jist askin’ a question. I didn’ ask fo’ no sob story.”

Racetrack’s cheeks went red, and Spot wanted to punch him. What a fucking asshole, being so fucking cute all the damn time.

Then, Racetrack’s face twisted in pain, and he hissed, and Spot realized Stitches was pulling the bandages off the stab wound. Spot slowly approached him, not wanting to spook him by going too fast.

“That’s Stitches, by the way,” he informed Racetrack because what else was he supposed to say? “He’s our go-to when tings get bad and messy, he’s real good at fixin’ us up. He ain’t gonna hurt you’se none.”

“I knows that!” Racetrack snapped at him. His body was withering around underneath Stitches’ administrations. Spot chewed his lip, he had to help somehow, since he only seemed to make everything worse.

Hesitantly, he sat next to Racetrack and made an impulsive decision to take Racetrack’s hand, refusing to look at him. “Squeeze when it ‘urts,” he mumbled, cheeks burning. “Supposed tah help the pain.”

Race swore and squeezed Spot’s hand so hard that he was worried his fingers would break, but he stayed silent, bearing the pain. He could do that much for him, couldn’t he?

Spot watched Racetrack’s bare arm cover his face as he tried to steady his breath. Stitches studied the wound and nodded. “No mo’ bleedin’,” he reported, voice faint and raspy. “Leave it uncova-ed. We can’t afford no ex’ra ban’ages.”

He nodded and squeezed Racetrack’s hand gently. “Stitches cleans ‘em up tah be able tah see how bad it is, y’know, an’ I think that helps a lot, mos’ of my boys get better afta seein’ Stitches. Don’ usually get infected, so you’se gonna be fine.”

Stitches bobbed his head and grinned proudly. “You’se gotta sees what yah treatin’,” he agreed. He fixed the band of Race’s pants so they wouldn’t rub against the wound and nodded, standing up.

Race smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Stitches,” he said softly, already exhausted. “Means a lot tah me.”

Stitches patted his shoulder gently and stood up, stretching carefully. “Res’,” he murmured. “You’se gonna need it.”

Spot nodded his gratitude to Stitches, who smiled and left quietly, shutting the door behind him. Spot knew he was probably going to go sell papes. He hoped it wasn’t too late in the morning.

Something soft touched his thigh and he looked down in surprise to see Race curling up towards him, forehead lightly leaning on his leg. He grimaced when some straw jabbed at the wound on his head, and Spot frowned. He gently pulled his hand away and pulled his shirt off his head, careful not to accidentally hit Racetrack. He folded it up and cupped Racetrack’s head, sliding the shirt underneath it before gently lowering his head back down. 

Racetrack slowly opened his eyes and then started, eyes wide and staring. Then, he flinched back, eyes shut tightly and curling in on himself. Spot blinked in surprise, hesitantly reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Racetrack? He asked softly, eyebrows furrowed. “You okay? Why’dja get all skeery on me like that, eh?”

Racetrack’s hysterics only seemed to intensify as his breath started coming out short and fast and he seemed to try to be shrinking up as small as he could. Spot wasn’t having any of it. As gently as he could, he got Racetrack sitting up and facing him. He tapped at his cheek with a scowl. “Oi, what’s a matta wit’chu? Breathe, yah coot. Jist’ breathe.”

Racetrack jerked away and started freaking out even more, and Spot panicked, not knowing what to do. He didn’t know how to comfort people, how to make things better. His ma used to be good at it, but he couldn’t remember how she did it. All he could think of was his father’s loud, thundering voice, and the feeling of a smack across his face.

Before he realized what the was doing, his hand was already in the air and then on Racetrack’s cheek. It wasn’t that hard, didn’t even leave a red mark, but Spot felt sick that he had just done something he had sworn he would never do to someone that didn’t deserve it.

He choked and cradled Racetrack’s head in his hands, shushing him and blubbering out frantic apologies, desperate to make Racetrack understand how sorry he was. 

Racetrack’s wailing calmed down after a few minutes until he was trembling, glassy eyed, staring blankly at nothing. “Stop holdin’ your breath, damn it,” Spot cursed softly, rubbing his thumbs over his cheeks.

Racetrack took a sharp breath and started coughing and wheezing, and Spot let out a shaky sigh of relief, pulling Race against his chest gently, combing his fingers through Racetrack’s curls.

After a few more minutes, Racetrack seemed to come out of his fit, pulling back only to freeze, staring at his neck. Then, he was pulling back only far enough to study his face in silence. A glance down and Spot knew exactly what Racetrack was noticing.

“Spot,” Racetrack whispered, and he ignored it, chewing on his lip.

“Lay down before you hurt yourself even more. What the hell jist’ happened there?” He said, trying to deflect the inevitable. 

To his surprise, Racetrack obeyed. He didn’t respond however, and after a moment, Spot’s anxiety raised.

“Oi,” he said, snapping his fingers in front of Racetrack’s face. “Look at me. What the fuck is with yah, huh?”

“I-I…” Racetrack’s voice was rough and thin and as he spoke, he seemed to shrink. “I… You’re my soulmate.”

Spot could see the fear and surprise flit across his face as he let something slip that he clearly didn’t mean to. He stiffened at the mention, and pressed his lips together, gnawing on his lip. “And?” He said, harsher than he meant to.

Racetrack flinched and Spot wanted to throw himself off the building. He was such an asshole, Racetrack clearly wasn’t in good shape and he had to go snap at him, didn’t he?

He gently gripped Racetrack’s shoulder with a grimace, softening his voice. “Hey, hey, I’s sorry, Racetrack, I jist’… I’s ain’t used tah nothin’ like this, see? Its… Well, I thoughts I was broken. Messed up in the head. Crazy as a loon, yah see? I don’t…. I… Fuck, listen, don’ tell no one, but I’m scared, ‘kay? This… This woul’ get me- us killed. It will, if we’s not careful.”

Racetrack looked close to tears. ““You… You’re one of thems too? A...” He leaned closer, like he was scared someone would hear them. “Queer?”

Spot scowled at the term, hunching his shoulders and glaring to the side. It took him a minute to respond. “Yeah,” he said gruffly, avoiding eye contact. “Guess I’se is.” He glanced at Race. “You is too.” He paused. “Ain’t you’se?”

Race cringed, shifting awkwardly. “Guess I’se is,” he echoed, looking at his lap and then back up at Spot.

He stared, at Racetrack, unable to help it. He was unfairly gorgeous, and just admitted he was a sodomite too. There wasn’t much to lose there, not anymore. Two queer soulmates, alone in an abandoned building.

“Fuck it,” Spot mumbled before leaning forward and connecting their lips, cupping the back of Racetrack’s head. His eyes fluttered closed as he kissed Racetrack, feeling like his stomach exploded into a million butterflies, all fluttering to get away.

When they broke apart, Race gaped like a fish while Spot pulled back slowly, blinking slowly.

“I- Wha- but-! What was that?” Race sputtered, looking slightly panicked. “Why’d’ja do that?”

“Figured I might as well go all in if we’s could be killed for it.” Spot murmured with a shrug. “’sides, I’se been wantin’ tah do that since I saw yah. You’se unfortunately pretty.”

Race blinked and swallowed hard. “I… Do I’se not get in a say in this?”

Spot frowned and then looked a bit surprised and worried. What if he read it all wrong? What if Racetrack hadn’t wanted that at all? Oh god, what if his soulmate hated him now? “Did… Did you not wants that? Shit, I shoulda asked, I’se sorry, I didn’t think none-”

Race shook his head, and quickly pressed a kiss to his lips to shut him up. He felt so dazed at the unexpected kiss that hebarely caught what Racetrack said. “No, no, that’s not what I’se mean, I jist’ wasn’ getting’ no say, y’know?”

Spot nodded, chewing his lip. His fingers reached up to lightly touch his lips without him even thinking about it. “Yeah. Yeah, I gets it. I don’ want yah tah feel like yah gotta listen tah everythin’ I say. You’se get say.”

He nodded, still staring at Spot. “This is definitely not hows I expected this tah go,” he mumbled and Spot couldn’t help the weak chuckle that left his throat. No, this definitely wasn’t what he expected either. He expected a lifetime of pining, quite frankly. Not this beautiful human kissing him.

His eyes wandered to Racetrack’s neck and he was reminded of the scars there. His fingers reached out and gently touched the little circles, scowling. He was furious as he realized someone had done this to Racetrack. Someone had put out a burning cigar, not once, not twice, but dozons of times on a child’s skin.

The thought filled him with disgust and anger. He wanted to find that person and make sure they could never hurt Racetrack again. 

“Who did this.” It wasn’t a question, and he could tell Racetrack knew.

“Do it matta?” Racetrack deflected, avoiding his gaze. “They’s ain’t doin’ it no more.”

Spot grabbed Racetrack’s chin, forcing him to look Spot in the eyes. “It matta tah me. You was no older than four when they’se started appearin’. My ma tolds me that, ‘afore she passed. She saids my “girl” had been hurt real bad by someone and that you’se must’ve been real little when it started ‘cause I was too. She tolds me nary tah let’chu get hurts again, and I ain’t, not eva, but I can’t do that if they’s still out there.”

Race’s lip trembled. “You’se had a good mum?” He murmured. “That’s good, that’s real nice. I’m real glad you had a real good mum.”

Spot pursed his lips and loosened his grip on Racetrack’s face. “Hey now, Racetrack, don’ get all mopey on me now, I’se no good at emotions, don’tcha knows that?”

A weak, watery laugh bubbled out of Racetrack’s throat, and tears spilled over and down his cheeks. He pressed into Spot’s touch, who held him as much as he could, trying to portray silent support. He wiped them away with the back of his hands. “I-I’se sorry, Sp-Spot, I’se jist’ can’t help in none sometimes, y’know?”

A sigh fell from Spot’s lips as he shuffled close to Racetrack, pulling him against his chest. “Yeah, yeah, jist’… Jist’ let it out then, won’tcha?”

With that, it was like a dam broke. Racetrack started sobbing into his shoulder, and Spot didn’t know what to do than awkwardly hold him. He wrapped his arms around him and just let him cry, silent and unjudging. He gently pressed his lips to the crown of his head, murmuring reassuringly.

It was a good long while before Racetrack’s sobs quieted and he looked up at Spot. He gently tucked a stray curl behind his ear. “Hey,” he whispered. “Feelin’ any betta?”

Racetrack seemed unable to answer verbally as he nodded and pressed back into Spot’s chest. He couldn’t help the tiny hitch in his breath, finding it unbelievable that someone as beautiful and amazing as Racetrack could trust someone like Spot so easily.

“Yah need tah sleep, yeah?” Spot slowly shifted until he was laying on the makeshift bed with Racetrack laying on top of him. “Jist’ rest. I’se gotcha.” His hand rested gently on the dip of Racetrack’s back while the other’s face was buried in his neck. 

The blonde fell asleep quickly, leaving Spot to stare up at the ceiling, wondering how he got so lucky as to have Racetrack in his arms and as his soulmate.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: patrocool
> 
> come talk to me, send me prompts and shit! tell me if you want to read more in this verse
> 
> kudos make me smile, comments make my entire fucking year. want me to write more? leave me long ass comments!! i want a fucking 9th grade book report okay
> 
> thanks for reading!


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